So saying, with infernal ingenuity, the heritage of his tribe in the art of torture, he stripped Slocum of his clothing and proceeded to draw cuts with his knife on different parts of the body, nowhere making an incision any deeper than requisite to cause the quivering flesh to feel the full pain. The wretched man plied the Indian with all manner of promises to induce him to desist, and on seeing he was relentless in his purpose, was about to shriek in the hope of attracting aid, when Hemlock caught him by the throat, and snatching up handfuls of forest-litter forced them into his mouth. Then he resumed his dreadful task. Morton, who hadalternated from a state of semi-stupor to that of insensibility, looked on in his lucid intervals with sickened horror, and begged Hemlock to desist. He paid not the slightest heed but went on for hours, gloating over the agonies of his victim, and adding a fresh wound as the others dulled. Alert even in his dreadful employment, a rustle in the bush caught his ear, and he listened. “It is the Yankee picket going to the blockhouse. If Hemlock could take you with him he would, but you cannot travel. They will make you prisoner and care for your wound. And now Hemlock must finish his revenge.” With one swift sweep of the knife, he cut the throat of his now fainting victim, with another he severed his scalp, and flourishing it above his head, vanished in the woods. Immediately afterwards a body of blue uniformed soldiers appeared, who shouted with surprise at seeing the major, naked, stiff and scalped, and a wounded British officer lying near him. Part hurried to each. As those who went to the side of Morton stooped over him and moved him, he fainted.
When Morton recovered consciousness he found he was in a large apartment, the sides formed of heavy logs, and surrounded by American soldiers, who were talking excitedly of the discovery of the dead body of Major Slocum. On seeing their prisoner was restored to his senses, they plied him with questions, in the hope of clearing up the mystery, but he felt so languid that he made no reply, and simply begged for water. On the arrival of two ox-carts, the corpse was lifted into one and the wounded man into the other. On being carried into the air, Morton saw that the building he had been in was a small blockhouse, so placed as to command the road which led to Canada. The jolting of the cart during the short drive was agony to him, and he was thankful when the log shanties of the village of Four Corners came in sight and the rows of tents of the camp. The cart halted at the door of a tavern, where he assumed the general must be, and soon an orderly came out and directed the driver to an outhouse, into which two soldiers carried him. It was a small, low-roofed stable, and in one of the stalls they laid Morton. Closing the door, he was left in darkness, and so remained until it reopened toadmit what proved to be a surgeon. He examined the wound, picked it clean, put in a few stitches, bound a wet-bandage round it, and had a pail of water placed near. “You keep that cloth wet,” he said to Morton, “and drink all you please, it will keep down the fever, and you will be well in a week. You have only a flesh-cut; had it been on the inside of the leg instead of the front you would have been a dead man in five minutes.”
“I am very weak.”
“Yes; from loss of blood; I will send you some whisky and milk.”
When the attendant appeared with the stimulant, Morton sickened at the smell of the whisky, but drank the milk. The man approved of the arrangement and disposed of the whisky. Having placed clean straw below Morton, he left him, barring the door. The soothing sensation of the wet bandage lulled him to sleep, and he slumbered soundly until awakened by the sound of voices at the door.
“Now, mem, you’d better go home and leave Jim alone.”
“You tell me he’s wounded, and who can nurse him better than his old mother?”
“Be reasonable; the doctor said he was not to be disturbed.”
“Oh, I will see him; look what I have brought him—a napkin full of the cakes he liked and this bottle of syrup.”
“Leave them, my good woman, with me and he will get them.”
“No, no, I must see my handsome boy in his uniform; my own Jimmy that never left my side until he listed the day before yesterday. The sight of me will be better than salve to his hurt.”
“I can’t let you in; you must go to the colonel for an order.”
“An order to see my own son! Jimmy, don’t you hear me; tell the man to let me in to you. (A pause.) Are you sleeping, Jimmy? It’s your mother has come to see you. (Here she knocked). Are you much hurt? Just a scratch, they tell me; perhaps they will let you go home with me till it heals. O, Jimmy, I miss you sorely at home.”
Again the woman knocked and placing her ear to a crack in the door listened.
“He ain’t moving! Soger man, tell me true, is my Jimmy here?”
“He is, mem; you must go to the colonel. I cannot let you in; I must obey orders.”
“If Jimmy is here, then he must be worse than they told me.”
“Very likely, mem; it is always best to be prepared for the worst.”
“He may be dyin’ for all you know. Do let me in.”
“There is the captain passing; ask him.”
“What’s wanted, Bill?”
“This is Jimmy’s mother and she wants to see him. Come and tell her.”
“That I won’t,” answered the captain, with an oath, “I want to have a hand in no scene; do as you like to break it to the old woman,” and on the captain passed.
“What does he mean? Jimmy ain’t to be punished, is he? He would not do wrong. It was just Tuesday week he went to the pasture for the cows and as he came back, there marched a lot of sogers, with flags aflying and drums and fifes playin’ beautiful. ‘O, mother,’ says he, ‘I would like to join em,’ an he kept acoaxin an aworryin me until I let him come up to the Corners an take the bounty, which he brings back to me, dressed in his fine clothes, the lovely boy.”
“Now, good woman, you go home an’ I will send you word of him.”
“That I won’t; if Jimmy is here I see him. Word came this morning that the Injuns had sprang on to the camp an’ there was a soger killed, stone dead, an’ two taken prisoners. An’, says I, lucky Jimmy ain’t one of them, for so they told me, an’ I will hurry up my chores an’ go and see him this evenin’, an’ here I am. An’ at the camp they tells me he is over here, and won’t you let me see him?”
“Your Jimmy, mem, yes, your Jimmy is——By God, I can’t speak the word. Here, take the key and go in; you’ll find him right in front o’ the door.”
The door opened and Morton saw a tidy little woman, poorly dressed, step in. She looked wonderingly around, glancing at him in her search forher son. Not seeing him, she stepped lightly towards a heap covered with an army blanket, of which she lifted a corner, gave a pitiful cry, and fell sobbing on what lay beneath. To his horror and pity, Morton perceived it was the corpse of a youth, the head with a bloody patch on the crown, from having been scalped. “This is what Perrigo’s men did,” he thought, “and this is war.” Here two women, warned by the sentry of what was passing, entered and did what they could to soothe the inconsolable mother. The succeeding half hour, during which preparations were made for burial, was accounted by Morton the saddest in his life, and when the detachment arrived with a coffin to take the body away, and he saw it leave, followed by the heart-broken mother, he breathed a sigh of relief and took a mental oath that it would go ill with him if he did not help the poor woman to the day of her death.
Some biscuit were brought to him, the bucket refilled with spring-water, the door closed, and barred, and he was left for the night. Weakness from loss of blood made him drowsy, and forgetting his miserable situation, he slept soundly until next morning, when he woke feeling more like himself than he could have believed possible. His wound felt easy and he was glad to find he could move without much pain. The doctor looked in, nodded approval of his condition, and said he would send him breakfast, after partaking of whichMorton turned his attention to his personal appearance, and with the aid of water, which the sentry got him as wanted, improved it somewhat. The day passed without incident, no one interrupting the monotony of his imprisonment. From the sound of wagon-wheels and the hurrying of messengers to and from the tavern, he surmised the army was preparing to move, and that in the bustle he was forgotten. The following morning his vigor had returned to such a degree that he fell to examining his prison-house and so far as he could, by peeping through crevices in its walls of logs, his surroundings, with a view to endeavoring to escape. He had finished breakfast, when an officer appeared, who introduced himself as Captain Thomas of the staff and announced that the General wished to see him. By leaning rather heavily on the American, who proved to be a gentlemanly fellow, Morton managed to hobble the short distance to Smith’s tavern, and was led directly to the General’s room. On entering, Morton saw a fine-looking old gentleman of dignified bearing, whom he recognized as the one he saw inspecting the troops on the evening of the surprise. He sat in a rocking-chair and before him stood a rough-looking farmer, with whom he was speaking. Waving Morton to take a seat, he went on with his conversation.
“You tell me your name is Jacob Manning and that you are acquainted with every inch of the country between here and Montreal. I will giveyou a horse from my own stud, which no Canadian can come within wind of, and you will go to the British camp and bring me word of its strength?”
“No, sir,” replied the backwoodsman.
“You will be richly rewarded.”
“That’s no inducement.”
“Fellow, you forget you are my prisoner, and that I can order you to be shot.”
“No, I don’t, but I’d rather be shot than betray my country.”
“Your country! You are American born. What’s Canada to you?”
“True enough, General, I was brought up on the banks of the Hudson and would have been there yet but for the infernal Whigs, who robbed us first of our horses, then of our kewows, and last of all of our farms, and called their thievery patriotism. If we Tories hadn’t had so much property, there wouldn’t a ben so many George Washington-Tom Jefferson patriots. When we were hunted from our birthplace for the crime of being loyal to the good King we were born under, we found shelter and freedom in Canada, and, by God, sir, there ain’t a United Empire loyalist among us that wouldn’t fight and die for Canada.”
“You rude boor,” retorted Gen. Hampton hotly, “we have come to give liberty to Canada, and our armies will be welcomed by its down-trodden people as their deliverers. I have reports and letters to that effect from Montreal and, best of all, thepersonal report of one of my staff, now dead, sent on a special mission.”
“Don’t trust ’em, General. We who came from the States know what you mean by liberty—freedom to swallow Whigery and persecution if you refuse. The Old Countrymen are stiff as hickory against you, and the French—why, at heart, they are against both.”
“It is false, sir. I have filled up my regiments since I came to this frontier with French.”
“It wa’nt for love of you; it was for your $40 bounty.”
The General rose and throwing open the shutter, closed to exclude the sunshine, revealed the army in review; masses of infantry moving with passable precision, a long train of artillery, and a dashing corps of cavalry. Proudly turning to the farmer he said,
“What can stop the sweep of such an army? England may well halt in her guilty career at the sight of these embattled sons of liberty and loosen her bloody clutch upon this continent of the New World.”
Neither the sight of the army nor the pompous speech of the General appalled the stout farmer, who replied, “The red-coats will make short work of ’em, and if you don’t want to go to Halifax you’d better not cross the lines.”
General Hampton made no reply, his good-sense apparently checking his pride, by suggesting thefolly of arguing with a backwoodsman, who had chanced to be taken prisoner in a foray. Summoning an orderly, he commanded that Manning be taken back to prison and not released until the army moved.
“And now, Lieutenant Morton, for so I understand you are named, you are the latest arrival from Canada; and what did they say of the Army of the North when you left?”
“They were wondering when they would have the pleasure of seeing it,” replied Morton.
“Ha! it is well to so dissemble the terror our presence on the frontier has stricken into the mercenaries of a falling monarchy. They will see the cohorts of the Republic soon enough: ere another sun has risen we may have crossed the Rubicon.”
“The wonder expressed at every mess-table has been the cause of your tarrying here.”
“So I am the topic of the conversation of your military circles,” said Hampton, with a pleased expression. “And what was their surmise as to the cause of my tarrying here.”
“That you were awaiting orders from General Wilkinson.”
The General sprung to his feet in anger and excitement. “What! Do they so insult me? Look you, young man, are you telling the truth or dare come here to beard me?”
“On my honor, General Hampton, I only repeat what I have heard a hundred times.”
“Then, when you hear it again, that I await the orders of that impudent pill-maker who masquerades at Oswego as a general, say it is a lie! General Hampton takes no orders from him; he despises him as a man and as a soldier—a soldier, quotha! A political mountebank, a tippler and a poltroon. Here I have been, ready to pluck up the last vestige of British authority on this continent for two months past, and been hindered by the government entrusting the Western wing of my army to a craven who refuses to recognize my authority and who lets I would wait on I dare not.”
“I meant no offence by my statement,” said Morton, as the General paused in striding the room.
“It is well for you that you did not, for I brook no aspersion upon my independence or my reputation as a veteran who has done somewhat to deserve well of his country, and that is implied in alleging, I take my orders from Wilkinson.”
Morton reiterated his regret at having unwittingly given offence and would assure the General that he had entertained so high an opinion of him that he did not attribute to him the harsh treatment he had received since taken prisoner. Asked of what he complained, he told of his having been thrust into a miserable stable and having received no such attention as is universally accorded to a wounded officer in camp.
The General smiled somewhat grimly as he said: “Lieut. Morton, your treatment is no criterion ofour hospitality to those whom the fortunes of war throw into our hands. You forget that you were made prisoner under most suspicious circumstances. You were found lying wounded beside the mutilated corpse of that influential citizen who, I may so express it, stepped from the political into the military arena, the late Major Slocum, and everything points to your having been associated with those who slew him and violated his remains. Apart from that grave circumstance, the mere fact of your being found on the territory of the United States government would justify my ordering your execution as a spy.”
“Sir,” indignantly interrupted Morton, “I am no spy. My uniform shows I am an officer of the King’s army and I came upon American soil engaged in lawful warfare, declared not by King George but by your own government. I am a prisoner-of-war but no spy.”
“It is undoubted that you consorted with Indians, that you were present with them in the childish attempt to surprise my army the other evening, and that you were with one or more redskins when Major Slocum offered up his life on the altar of his country in a manner that befitted so celebrated a patriot, who to his laurels as a statesman had added those of a soldier. You must understand, for you appear to be a man of parts and education, that Indians and those who associate with them are not recognized as entitled to therights of war. They are shot or hung as barbarous murderers without trial.”
“If that is your law, General, how comes it that you have Indians in your army?”
The General looked nonplussed for a moment. “Our Indians,” he answered, “are not in the same category. They have embraced the allegiance of a free government; yours are wild wretches, refugees from our domain and fugitives from our justice, and now the minions of a bloody despotism.”
“I do not see that if it is right for your government to avail themselves of the skill of Indians as scouts and guides that it can be wrong for His Majesty’s government to do the same. Between the painted savages I perceived in your camp and those in the King’s service, I could distinguish no difference.”
“Keep your argument for the court martial which, tho’ I do not consider you entitled, I may grant. Leaving that aside, sir, and reminding you of your perilous position, I would demand whether you are disposed to make compensation, so far as in your power, to the government of the United States by giving information that would be useful in the present crisis? As an officer, you must know much of the strength and disposition of the British force who stand in my onward path to Montreal.”
Morton’s face, pale from his recent wound and confinement, flushed. “If you mean, sir, that you offer me the choice of proving traitor or of a rope,you know little of the honor of a British soldier or of his sense of duty. It is in your power to hang me, but not to make me false to my country and my King.”
“Come, come young man; do not impute dishonor to a Southerner and a gentleman who bore a commission in the Continental army. Leave me, who am so much older and, before you were born, saw service under the immortal Washington, to judge of what is military ethics. We are alone, and as a gentleman speaking to a gentleman, I demand whether you are going to give me information useful in the movement I am about to make upon Montreal?”
“You have had my answer.”
The General took up a pen, wrote a few lines, and then rang a bell. Captain Thomas entered. “Take this and conduct the prisoner away,” said the General handing him a folded paper. Morton bowed and left the room, fully believing that the missive was an order for his execution. Conducted back to the stable, he threw himself on his straw-heap, indignant and yet mortified at being treated as a spy. He thought of his relations, of his comrades, of his impending disgraceful death, and then clenched his teeth as he resolved he would not plead with his captors but die without a murmur.
The marching of a body of men was heard without. They halted and the door was thrown open. The officer in command said he had come to escorthim to the court-martial. Morton gave no sign of surprise and limped as firmly as he could, surrounded by the files of men, to the tent where the court was awaiting him. The clerk read the charges, which were, that he was a spy, that he had associated himself with Indian marauders in an attack on the camp and, that he had been an accomplice in the murder of Major Slocum. In reply to the usual question of guilty or not guilty, Morton answered that he scorned to plead to such charges, that his uniform was the best reply to his being a spy and if they doubted his right to wear it, he referred them to Major Stovin at Camp la Fourche; that he had made war in a lawful way and with men regularly enrolled in the British service, and, before God, he protested he had no hand in the killing of Major Slocum. “That,” said the presiding officer, “is equivalent to your pleading not guilty. The prosecutor will now have to adduce proof of the charges.”
The only witnesses were the soldiers who had found him lying in the bush beside the corpse of Major Slocum. Morton peremptorily refused to answer questions. “You place us in a painful position, Lieutenant Morton, by refusing to answer, for we must conclude that you can give no satisfactory explanation of the circumstances under which you were captured. A foul, a diabolical murder has been committed, and everything points to you as being, at least, a party to it. Yourwound in itself is witness against you that you assailed our late comrade-in-arms.”
Morton rose to his feet, and holding up his hand said: “Gentlemen, I stand before you expecting to receive sentence of death and to be shortly in presence of my Maker. At this solemn moment, I repeat my declaration, that I had no part in the death of Major Slocum, that I did not consent to it and that if it had been in my power I would have saved him.”
“I submit, Mr President,” said a member of the court, “that the statement we have just heard is tantamount to Lieutenant Morton’s declaring he knows how and by whom Major Slocum came to his death. As one who has practised law many years, I assert that the statement just made is a confession of judgment, unless the defendant informs the court who actually committed the murder and declares his willingness to give evidence for the state. If a man admits he was witness to a murder and will not tell who did it, the court may conclude he withholds the information for evil purpose, and is justified in sentencing him as an abettor at least. In this case, the wound of the accused points to his being the principal. Before falling, Major Slocum, in his heroic defence, deals a disabling wound to this pretended British officer who thereupon leaves it to his associated red-skins to finish him and wreak their deviltry on the corpse.”
“The opinion you have heard,” said the presiding-officer, “commends itself to this board. What have you to say in reply?”
“Nothing,” answered Morton.
“We will give you another chance. We cannot pass over the murder of a brother officer. Only strict measures have prevented many citizens in our ranks, who esteemed Major Slocum as one of their political leaders and of popular qualities, from taking summary vengeance upon you. We make this offer to you: make a clean breast of it, tell us who committed the murder, give us such assistance as may enable us to track the perpetrator, and, on his capture, we will set you free.”
“And if I refuse,” asked Morton, “what then?”
“You will be hanged at evening parade.”
“With that alternative, so revolting to a soldier, I refuse your offer. What the circumstances are which bind me to silence, I cannot, as a man of honor, tell, but I again affirm my innocence.”
“Lieutenant Morton, what say you: the gallows or your informing us of a cruel murderer: which do you choose?”
“I choose neither; I alike deny your right to take my life or to extort what I choose not to tell.”
“Withdraw the prisoner,” ordered the presiding-officer, “while the court consults,” and Morton was led a few yards away from the tent. He could hear the voice of eager debate and one speaker in his warmth fairly shouted, “He must be made totell; we’ll squeeze it out of him,” and then followed a long colloquy. An hour had passed when he was recalled.
“We have deliberated on the evidence in your case, Lieutenant Morton; and the clerk will read the finding of the court.”
From a sheet of foolscap the clerk read a long minute, finding the prisoner guilty on each count.
Standing up and adjusting his sword, the presiding officer said, “It only remains to pronounce sentence: it is, that you be hanged between the hours of five and six o’clock this day.”
Morton bowed and asked if the sentence had been confirmed by the commanding-officer. “It has been submitted and approved,” was the reply.
“In the brief space of time that remains to me,” said Morton in a firm voice, “may I crave the treatment that befits my rank in so far that I may be furnished with facilities for writing a few letters?”
“You may remain here and when done writing, the guard will conduct you back whence you came, there to remain until execution.” With these words he rose, and the others followed, leaving Morton alone with the clerk and the captain of his guard. He wrote three letters,—to Major Stovin, to his colonel, and the longest to his relatives across the Atlantic,—being careful in all to say nothing about Hemlock, for he suspected the Americans would read them before sending. When done, he was taken back to the stable, and left in darkness. Hehad abandoned all hope: his voyage across life’s ocean was nearly ended, and already he thought the mountain-tops of the unknown country he was soon to set foot upon loomed dimly on his inward eye. The hour which comes to all, when the things of this life shrink into nothingness, was upon him, and the truths of revelation became to him the only actualities. The communings of that time are sacred from record: enough to say, they left a sobering and elevating influence on his character. He was perfectly composed when he heard the guard return, and quietly took his place in the centre of the hollow square. On the field used as a parade ground he saw the troops drawn up in double line. At one end were the preparations for his execution, a noose dangling from the limb of a tree and a rough box beneath to serve as his coffin. There was not a whisper or a movement as he passed slowly up between the lines of troops. It seemed to him there was unnecessary delay in completing the arrangements; and that the preliminaries were drawn out to a degree that was agonizing to him. At last, however, his arms were pinioned and the noose adjusted. The officer who had presided at his trial approached “By authority of the General,” he whispered, “I repeat the offer made you: assist us to secure the murderer of Major Slocum and you get your life and liberty.”
Morton simply answered, “Good friend, for Jesu’s sake, leave me alone.”
The word was not given to haul the tackle and Morton stood facing the assembled ranks for what seemed to him to be an age, though it was only a few minutes. The bitterness of death was passed and the calmness of resignation filled his soul. Again the officer spoke, “What say you, Lieutenant Morton?” Morton merely shook his head. Presently a horseman was seen to leave the General’s quarters and an orderly rode up. “By command of the General, the execution is postponed.” Morton’s first feeling was that of disappointment.
As he was hurried back to the stable, the order dismissing the troops was given. As they broke up, a soldier remarked to his comrade, “They’d sooner have him squeal than stretch his neck.”
On the afternoon of the second day after the events of last chapter, Allan Forsyth returned from his daily visit to Camp la Fourche excited and indignant. “What think ye,” he said to his wife and Maggie, “Lieutenant Morton is in the hands o’ the Yankees and they’re gaun to hang him.”
Maggie paled and involuntarily stepped nearer her father.
“The deils that they be; hoo did they get haud o’ him?” asked Mrs Forsyth.
“The story is sune tell’t,” replied her husband. “He was sent, as ye ken, wi’ a despatch to the lines; while there he took part in a bit skirmish, an’ the day after was found by the Yankees lyin’ wounded in the woods beside the body o’ a Yankee officer.”
“Weel, they canna hang him for that. Gin the Yankees will fecht, they maun expect to be kilt.”
“Ah, ye dinna understan. They say their officer wasna kilt in regular coorse o’ war. The body was scalped and carvt in a gruesome fashion, showing plainly the hand o’ the Indian, an’ they hold Mr Morton accountable.”
“But he didna scalp the Yankee?”
“True, gudewife, but he winna tell them wha did. His sword they found beside the corpse, showing they had been in mortal combat.”
“Is he sorely wounded?” asked Maggie.
“I canna say for that. It’s no likely, for they had him oot ae evening to hang him, and took a better thocht when he was below the gallows.”
“How did you hear all this?”
“A messenger came in today with letters from him, sent across the lines under a flag o’ truce. It was said in camp Major Stovin was stampin’ angry and was going to write back that gin a hair o’ the Lieutenant’s head is harmed he will hang every Yankee officer that fa’s into his hans. I gaed ower to see the messenger and he tell’t me the word went that Morton defied General Hampton and his officers to do their worst, that, to save his life, he wadna bring disgrace on his commission.”
“Who is the messenger: has he gone back?”
“He’s a young lad, a son o’ ane o’ the settlers in Hinchinbrook. He goes back tomorrow with letters from Major Stovin.”
“Will he see Morton?”
“No, no: to be sure thae folk on the lines gang back an’ forrit, but they’re no likely to let him near. His letters will be taken at the outposts.”
“Do you think Major Stovin’s letter will save him?”
“That it won’t. The lad said the Yankees were fair wud ower the death o’ their officer an’ willhang puir Morton to a dead certainty gin he doesna reveal to them wha did the deed.”
“An’ for what will he no tell?” asked Mrs Forsyth.
“That he kens best. Maybe gratitude to an Indian ca’d Hemlock seals his lips, for oor men believe he was with him at the time.”
“What does Hemlock say?” interjected Maggie.
“He’s no in camp. He came back three days ago and left for Oka, where he bides.”
Until bedtime Morton was the subject of conversation, and the more they talked of him the keener their interest grew in his serious situation. That one whom they had learned to like and respect so much should die an ignominious death shocked them, and even Mrs Forsyth was constrained to say, that much as she disliked Yankees, “Gin I were near eneuch to walk to him, I wad gang on my knees to Hampton to beg his life.”
Next morning, while engaged in the stable, Mr Forsyth was surprised by the appearance of his daughter.
“Hey, my woman, what’s garrd you to come oot in the grey o’ the mornin’? Time eneuch an hour frae this.”
“Father, I could not sleep and I wanted to speak to you. If Hemlock was brought back, would he not save Morton?”
“Ah, he winna come back. Doubtless he kens the Yankees wad rax his neck for him. His leevinfor hame shows he is afeard o’ what he has dune.”
“Yet there’s no other hope of saving Morton.”
“Too true; gin the actual slayer o’ the officer is not surrendered within a few days poor Morton will suffer.”
“Well, then, father, you cannot go to seek for Hemlock, and my brothers would not be allowed to leave their duty in camp, so I will go. I can be in Oka before dark and will see Hemlock.”
“Dinna think o’ such a thing,” entreated the father, “the road is lang an’ the Indian wad just laugh at you gin you found him, which is dootful.”
A favorite child has little difficulty in persuading a parent, and before many minutes Mr Forsyth was won over, declaring “it wad be a shame gin we did naething to try an’ save the puir lad.” It was arranged she should go at once, the father undertaking to break the news to his wife. All her other preparations having been made beforehand, the slipping of a plaid over her head and shoulders rendered her fit for the journey, and with a cheery goodbye to her father she stepped quickly away. She went to the camp at La Fourche, where she surprised her brothers and got them to search out the messenger who had brought the startling tidings. She had a talk with him, learning all he knew of Morton. Then she went to see the Indians in camp, who readily enough told what little they knew of Hemlock. They believed he was at Oka and did not expect him back, as he said hewould join the force that was being assembled above Cornwall to meet Wilkinson. Thus informed she took the road, a mere bush track, that led to Annfield Mills, now known as the town of Beauharnois, which she reached in the course of two hours or so and walked straight to the house of the only person in it who she thought could help her. It was a log-shanty built on the angle where the St Louis rushes brawling past and the calm waters of the bay, and was of unusual length, the front end being devoted to the purposes of an office. The door stood open and Maggie walked into a little den, in one corner of which stood a desk with pigeon-holes stuffed with papers, and beside it were a few shelves filled with bottles and odds-and-ends, the whole dusty, dark, and smelling of tobacco. At the desk sat a little man, dressed in blue with large gilt buttons.
“Oh, ho, is this you, Maggie Forsyth? Often have I gone to see you, but this is the first time you have dropped in to see me.”
“See you, you withered auld stick! I just dropped in to speer a few questions at you.”
“Auld stick, Mag; I’m no sae auld that I canna loe ye.”
“Maybe, but I dinna loe you.”
“Look here, lassie; see this bit airn kistie; its fu o’ siller dollars; eneuch to varnish an auld stick an keep a silken gown on yer back every day o’ the year.”
“An eneuch in thae dirty bottles to pooshen me when ye wad?”
“Ha, ha, my lass; see what it is to hae lear. I didna gang four lang sessions to new college, Aberdeen, for naething. I can heal as well as pooshen. It’s no every lassie has a chance to get a man o’ my means and learnin.”
“Aye, an its no every lassie that wad want them alang wi’ an auld wizened body.”
“Hech, Mag, ye’re wit is ower sharp. When a man’s going down hill, ilka body gies him a jundie. If ye winna, anither will, but we’ll let that flee stick i’ the wa’ for awhile. Where is your faither?”
“At hame: I just walked ower.”
“Walked ower yer lane, an a’ thae sogers an’ Indians roun!”
“If yer ceevil ye’ll meet wi’ ceevilty, Mr Milne; an’ I’m gaun farther this day, an’ just looked in for yer advice.”
“Oh ye maun hae a drap after your walk,” and here he pulled out a big watch from his fob. “Gracious! it is 20 minutes ayont my time for a dram.”
Stooping beneath the table that answered for a counter, he filled a grimy tin measure, which he tendered to Maggie, who shook her head. “Na, na, I dinna touch it.”
Finding persistence useless, he raised the vessel to his mouth and with a “Here’s tae ye,” emptied it. “Hech, that does me guid,—but no for lang. Noo, lass, what can I do to serve you?”
Maggie unreservedly told him all. “An’ what’s this young Morton to you?”
“Naething mair than ony neebur lad.”
“Tell that to my grannie,” said the old buck, “I can see through a whin stane as far as onybody an’ noo unnerstan why ye turn yer back on a graduate o’ new college, Aberdeen, wi’ a kist o’ siller, and a’ for a penniless leftenant.”
“Think what thochts ye may, Mr Milne, but they’re far astray. The lad is naething to me nor me to him. I am going to Oka because nae man-body is allowed to leave the camp, and I couldna stay at hame gin it was in my power to save a fellow-creature’s life.”
“An what can I do to help you to save him?”
“Help me to reach Oka and find Hemlock.”
“Were it no for thae stoury war-times I wad get out my boat and gang mysel’, and there’s naebody to send wi’ you. My lass, gif ye’ll no turn hame again, ye’ll have to walk the road your lane.”
“I hae set my face to the task an’ I’ll no gang hame.”
“Weel, then, ye’ll hae a snack wi’ me an’ I’ll direct ye as well as may be.”
A few rods up the St Louis, in the centre of the stream, where it trickled over a series of rocky shelves, stood a small mill, and on the adjoining bank the house of the miller, and thither they went and had something to eat. The miller’s wife, a good-looking woman, could not speak English, butmade up her lack in lively gesticulations, while Maggie helped the common understanding with odd words and phrases in French. Justice done to the food hurriedly spread before them, Maggie walked back with Milne until they stood in front of the house.
“There,” he said, pointing to planks resting on big stones, “you cross the St Louis and keep the track until you come to the first house after you pass the rapids. It is not far, but the road is shockingly bad. There you will ask them to ferry you to the other side, when you’ve a long walk to the Ottawa before you. I’d advise you to turn yet.” Maggie shook her head decisively. “Weel, weel, so be it; he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. Here tak this,” and he put in her hand two silver dollars.
Maggie winced. “I’ll hae nae need o’ siller.”
“Ye dinna ken; ye may get into trouble that money will help you out o’. Dinna fear to take it; I’ve made (and here his voice sank to a whisper) I’ve made a hunner o’ thae bricht lads by ae guid run o’ brandy kegs across the Hinchinbrook line. It’s Yankee siller.”
Maggie smiled and, as if the questionable mode of their acquisition justified their acceptance, clasped them, and nodding to the little man, tripped her way to the other side of the river. The road, as predicted, proved execrable. Walled in and shadowed by trees, neither breeze nor sunlightpenetrated to dry it, and it was a succession of holes filled with liquid mud. So bad was it, that an attempt to haul a small cannon along it had to be abandoned despite the efforts of horses, oxen, and a party of blue jackets. Tripping from side to side, and occasionally passing an unusually deep hole by turning into the bush, Maggie made all haste. Once only she halted. A party of artillerymen and sailors were raising a breastwork at the head of the Cascade rapids, whereon to mount a gun that would sweep the river, and she watched them for a while. That was the only sign of life along the road until the white-washed shanty of the ferryman came in sight, in front of which a troop of half-naked children were tumbling in boisterous play, and who set up a shrill cry of wonder when they saw her. Their mother, so short and stout as to be shapeless, came to the door in response to their cries and gazed wonderingly at the stranger. She volubly returned Maggie’s salutation and led her into the house, the interior of which was as bare as French Canadian houses usually are, but clean and tidy. Her husband was away, helping to convey stores to the fort at the Coteau, and there was not, to her knowledge, a man within three miles capable of ferrying her across. Could not madam paddle her over? The woman’s hands went up in pantomimic amazement. Would she tempt the good God by venturing in a canoe alone with a woman? Did she not knowthe current was swift, and led to the rapids whose roaring she heard! No, she must stay overnight, and her good man would take her over in the morning. Maggie could only submit and seated herself behind the house, to gaze towards the other bank which she was so anxious to set foot upon. From where she sat, the bank abruptly sank to a depth of perhaps thirty feet, where a little bay gave shelter to a canoe and a large boat fitted to convey a heavy load. Beyond the rocks that headed the tiny inlet, which thus served as a cove for the ferryman’s boats, the river swept irresistibly, and where in its channel between the shore and the islands that shut out the view of the north bank, any obstacle was met, the water rose in billows with foaming heads. Maggie knew that she was looking upon the south channel of the great river, and that the main stream lay on the other side of the tree-covered islands, which varied in size from half a mile long to rocks barely large enough to afford foothold to the tree or two whose branches overhung the foaming current. The motion of the rushing water contrasted so finely with the still-life and silence of the forest that framed it, and the many shaped and many colored islands that diversified its surface, that the scene at once soothed the anxious mind of the peasant maid and inspired her with fresh energy.
“Time is passing like that mighty stream,” she thought, “and before another sunset help forMorton may be too late,” and then she asked herself why she, so used to the management of a canoe, should not paddle herself across? She sought out madam and told her what she proposed, was met with energetic protestation, and then was allowed to have her own way. Fortified with directions which she only partially understood, Maggie took her place in the canoe, and waving good-bye to madam and her troop of children, who stood on the landing, pushed out. Unmindful of how the light skiff drifted downwards, she kept its head pointed to the island that lay opposite to her and paddled for dear life. Once she received a shower of spray in passing too near to where the current chafed and fumed over a sunken rock, but she retained her presence of mind, and was glad to see the island draw nearer with each stroke. Just as the gravelly strand seemed within reach, the drift brought her nigh to the end of the island, and she paddled into the channel that lay between it and the islets adjoining, which nestled so closely that the tops of the trees upon them interlaced, furnishing a leafy arcade to the narrow channels that divided them. As Maggie paused for breath after her severe exertion, a sense of the quiet beauty and security of the retreat came over her, and drawing the canoe on to the pebbly beach, she laved her feet while, idly picking from the bushes and vines within reach, she formed a bouquet of colored leaves. She heard the roar of the rapidsbeneath and she knew that a few yards farther on lay the deep-flowing north channel, but her nature was not one to borrow trouble and she enjoyed the present to the full in her cool retreat. When she again took her place in the canoe, a few dips of the paddle took it outside the islands, and she saw the main channel of the river—smooth except for great greasy circles of slowly whirling water, as if the mighty river, after its late experience of being shredded in the rapids above, had a nightmare of foreboding of a repetition of the same agony in the rapids to which it was hastening. With steady stroke Maggie urged the canoe forward and did not allow the consciousness that she was drifting toward the rapids discompose her. As the canoe neared the bank, the sweep of the current increased, and her arms began to ache with the violent and long-continued exertion. To her joy, she saw a man standing at the landing and the strokes of her paddle quickened. The canoe was swept past the landing, when the man, picking up a coil of rope, ran downwards to a point, and watching his chance, threw it across the canoe. Maggie caught an end of the rope, and in a minute was hauled ashore. The man, a French Canadian employed to assist the bateaux in passing between lakes St Francis and St Louis, expressed his astonishment at a woman daring so perilous a feat, and his wonder increased when she told him of her intention of going to Oka. “Alone! mademoiselle,”he exclaimed, “why you will lose your way in the forest which is full of bears and Indians.” She smiled in answer, and receiving his directions, sought the blazed track which led to the Ottawa. Familiar with the bush, she had no difficulty in following the marks, for the litter of falling leaves had begun to shroud the path. The tapping of the woodpecker and the chirrup of the squirrel cheered her, and she pressed on with a light and quick step. Hours passed until the gloom that pervaded the forest told her the sun had ceased to touch the tree-tops and she wished the Ottawa would come in sight. While giving way to a feeling of dread that she might have to halt and, passing the night in the woods, await daylight to show her the way, the faint tinkle of a bell reached her. With expectant smile she paused, and poising herself drank in the grateful sound. “It is the bell of the mission,” she said, and cheerfully resumed her journey. All at once, the lake burst upon her view—a great sweep of glassy water, reflecting the hues of the evening sky, and sleeping at the foot of a long, low hill, covered to its double-topped summit with sombre-foliaged trees. At the foot of the slope of the western end of the hill, she distinguished the mission-buildings and, running above and below them, an irregular string of huts, where she knew the Indians must live, and behind those on the river’s edge rose a singular cliff of yellow sand. The path led her to where the lake narrowedinto a river and she perceived a landing-place. Standing at the farthest point, she raised her hand to her mouth and sent a shout across the waters, long, clear, and strong, as she had often done to her father and brothers, while working in the bush, to tell of waiting-meals. In the dusk, she perceived a movement on the opposite bank and the launch of a canoe, which paddled rapidly across. It contained two Indians, whose small eyes and heavy features gave no indication of surprise on seeing who wanted to be ferried. Stepping lightly in, the canoe swiftly skimmed the dark waters, which now failed to catch a gleam from the fading glories of the evening sky. The silence was overwhelming, and as she viewed the wide lake, overshadowed by the melancholy mountain, Maggie experienced a feeling of awe. At that very hour she knew her father would be conducting worship, and as the scene of her loved home passed before her, she felt a fresh impulse of security, and she murmured to herself, “My father is praying for me and I shall trust in the Lord.”
On getting out of the canoe she was perplexed what step to take next. To her enquiries, made in English and imperfect French, the Indians shook their heads, and merely pointed her to the mission-buildings. Approaching the nearest of these, from whose open door streamed the glowing light of a log-fire, she paused at the threshold on seeing a woman kneeling, and who, on hearing her, coollyturned, surveyed her with an inquisitive and deliberate stare, and then calmly resumed her devotions. When the last bead was told, the woman rose and bade her welcome. Maggie told her of her errand. The woman grew curious as to what she could want with an Indian. Yes, she knew Hemlock, but had not seen him; he is a pagan and never comes near the presbytery. The father had gone into the garden to repeat his office and had not returned; she would ask him when he came in. Mademoiselle could have had no supper; mon Dieu, people did not pick up ready-cooked suppers in the woods, but she would hasten and give her of her best. It was a treat to see a white woman, even if she was an Anglais and, she feared, a heretic. The embers on the hearth were urged into a blaze, and before long a platter of pottage, made from Indian corn beaten into a paste, was heated, sprinkled over with maple-sugar and set down with a bowl of curdled-cream on the table. Maggie had finished her repast when the priest entered. He was a lumpish man with protruding underlip, which hung downwards, small eyes, and a half-awakened look. “Ah, good-day,” he said with a vacant stare. Maggie rose and curtsied, while the housekeeper volubly repeated all she had learned of her and her errand. “Hemlock!” he exclaimed, “we must take care. He is a bad Indian and this young woman cannot want him for any good.”
“True; I never thought of that.”
“Ah, we must keep our eyes always open. What can a girl like this want with that bold man?”
“And to run after him through the woods, the infatuate! We must save her.”
“I will have her sent to the sisters, who will save her body and soul from destruction. She would make a beautiful nun.” And the priest rubbed his chubby hands together.
“May it please your reverence,” interposed Maggie, who had caught the drift of their talk, “I seek your aid to find Hemlock. If you will not help me, I shall leave your house.”
The priest gasped for a minute with astonishment. “I thought you were English; you understand French?”
“Enough to take care of myself, and I wish ministers of your robe were taught in college to have better thoughts of us poor women.”
“It is for your good we are instructed; so that we can guard you by our advice.”
“For our good you are taught to think the worst of us! I look for Hemlock that he may go and give evidence that will save a man condemned to die. For the sake of innocency I ask your help.”
The priest shrugged his shoulders, stared at her, gathered up his robe, grasped his missal with one hand and a candle with the other, and saying, “I leave you with Martine,” passed up the open stairway to his bedroom.
“Ah, the holy father!” ejaculated the housekeeper,“when we are sunk in stupid sleep, he is on his knees praying for us all, and the demons dare not come near. Will you not come into the true church? Sister Agatha would teach you. She has had visions in her raptures. Mon Dieu, her knees have corns from kneeling on the stone steps of the altar. You will not. Ah, well, I will ask their prayers for you and the scales may drop from your eyes.”
“Do tell me, how I can find Hemlock?” pleaded Maggie, and the current of her thoughts thus changed, Martine insisted on learning why and how his evidence was needed, and Maggie repeated as much of the story as was necessary. The housekeeper grew interested and said decisively, “the young brave must not die.” Covering her head with a blanket-like shawl, she told Maggie to follow, and stepped out. It was a calm, clear night, the glassy expanse of the lake reflecting the stars. Hurrying onwards, they passed a number of huts, until reaching one, they entered its open door. The interior was dark save for the faint glow that proceeded from the dying embers on the hearth. Maggie saw the forms of several asleep on the floor and seated in silence were three men. “This woman has come to find Hemlock; can you guide her to him?”
“What seeks she with him?”
“She has come from the Chateaugay to tell him his word is wanted to save his best friend from death.”
The conversation went on in the gutturals of the Iroquois for some time, when the housekeeper said to Maggie, “It is all right; they know where Hemlock is, but it would not be safe to go to him now. They will lead you to him at daybreak. Come, we will go back and you will stay with me until morning.”
The rising of the housekeeper, whose bed she shared, woke Maggie, and a glance through the small window showed a faint whitening in the sky that betokened the coming of day. Knowing there was no time to spare, she dressed herself quickly, and, joining the housekeeper in the kitchen, asked if the messenger had come. She answered by pointing to the open door, and Maggie saw, seated on the lowest step, in silent waiting, the figure of an Indian. She was for going with him at once, when the housekeeper held her and, fearful of disturbing her master, whispered to eat of the food she had placed on the table. Having made a hurried repast, Maggie drew her shawl over her head and turned to bid her hostess good-bye. The good soul forced into her pocket the bread that remained on the table, and kissed her on both cheeks. When Maggie came to the door, the Indian rose and, without looking at her, proceeded to lead the way through the village and then past it, by a path that wound to the top of the sand-hill that hems it in on the north. Motioning her to stand still, the Indian crept forward as if to spy out the object oftheir search. Glancing around her, Maggie saw through the spruces the Ottawa outstretched at her feet, reflecting the first rosy gleam of the approaching sun. A twitch at her shawl startled her. It was her guide who had returned. Following him, as he slowly threaded his way through the grove of balsams and spruces, they soon came to a halt, and the Indian pointed to a black object outstretched upon the ground a few yards from them. Fear overcame Maggie, and she turned to grasp the arm of her guide—he was gone. Her commonsense came to her aid. If this was Hemlock, she had nothing to fear, and mastering her agitation she strove to discover whether the figure, which the dawn only rendered perceptible amid the gloom of the evergreens, was really the object of her quest. Silently she peered, afraid to move a hairsbreadth, for what seemed to her to be an age, and she came to see clearly the outline of a man, naked save for a girdle, fantastically fashioned out of furs of varied colors, stretched immoveable on the sod, face downward. Suddenly a groan of anguish escaped from the lips of the prostrate man and the body swayed as if in convulsions. Her sympathies overcame her fears, and advancing Maggie cried, “Hemlock, are you ill? Can I help you?”
With a terrific bound the figure leapt to its feet, the right arm swinging a tomahawk, and, despite an effort at control, Maggie shrieked. The lightwas now strong enough to show the lineaments of the Indian, whose face and body were smeared with grease and soot and whose countenance wore the expression of one roused from deep emotion in sudden rage.
“Hemlock, do not look at me so; I am Maggie Forsyth, come from the Chateaugay to seek you.”
Instantly the face of the Indian softened. “Why should the fawn leave the groves of the Chateaugay to seek so far the lair of the lynx?”
“Your friend Morton is doomed to die by the American soldiers and you alone can save him.”
“What! Did he not escape? Tell me all.”
Maggie told him what she knew, he listening with impassive countenance. When she had done, he paused, as if reflecting, and then said curtly, “I will go with you.” It was now fair daylight, and Maggie saw, to her dismay, that the mound upon which she had found Hemlock outstretched was a grave, and that, at the head of it was a stake upon which hung several scalps, the topmost evidently cut from a recent victim. Glancing at the radiant eastward sky, the Indian started, and ignoring the presence of his visitor, fell on his knees on the grave, and turning his face so as to see the sun when it should shoot its first beam over the broad lake, which was reflecting the glow of the rosy clouds that overhung its further point, he communed with the dead. “I leave thee, Spotted Fawn, for a while, that I may meet those who didthee hurt and bring back another scalp to satisfy thy spirit. Thy father’s arm is strong, but it is stronger when he thinks of thee. Tarry a while before you cross the river and I will finish my task and join thee in the journey to the hunting-ground; the arm that oft bore you when a child, will carry you over the waters and rocks. Farewell! Oh, my child, my daughter, how could you leave me? Tread softly and slowly, for I will soon leave my lodge of sorrow and see you and clasp you to my heart.” There was a pause, a groan of unutterable sorrow escaped his lips, and he sank lifeless upon the grave. Agitated with deep sympathy, Maggie stepped forward and kneeling beside the Indian stroked his head and shoulders as if she had been soothing a child.
“Dinna tak on sae, Hemlock. Sair it is to mourn the loved and lost, but we maun dae our duty in this warl and try to live sae as to meet them in the warl ayont. He that let the stroke fa’, alane can heal the hurt. Gin yer daughter is deed, it is only for this life. Her voice will be the first to welcome you when you cross death’s threshold.”
“I saw her an hour ago. It is your creed that says the dead are not seen again in this life. I got the medicine from my father that melts the scales from our earthly eyes for a while. Last night I saw my child—last night she was in these arms—last night my cheek felt the warmth of her breath—last night my ears joyed in the ripple of herlaughter. Oh, my Spotted Fawn, the joy, the life of my heart, why did you stray from me?” Then, his mood changing, he sprang up with the words, “Cursed be the wolves that hunted you, cursed be the catamount that crept near that he might rend you! I will seek them out, I will track them day by day, until I slay the last of them.” Here he ground his teeth and remained absorbed for a minute, then turning sharply, with a wave of the hand, he beckoned Maggie to follow, and led to the verge of the cliff overhanging the Ottawa. “Stay here until I come back,” he whispered and, disappeared over the declivity.
The glorious landscape outstretched at her feet soothed, as naught else could, the agitation of Maggie’s mind, for Nature’s touch is ever gentle and healing. The great expanse of water, here narrowed into a broad river, there swelling into a noble lake, was smooth as a mirror, reflecting hill and tree and rock. Beyond it, was unrolled the forest as a brightly colored carpet, for the glory of Autumn was upon it, and a trail of smoky mist hung on the horizon. An hour might have sped, when Hemlock reappeared, with paint washed off and dressed in his usual attire. Across his back was slung his rifle; at his heel was a gaunt, ill-shaped dog. “Follow,” he said, and turning backward a few paces, led to where the bank could be descended without difficulty. At the foot of it, lay waiting a canoe, with a boy in the bow. Maggiestepped lightly into the centre, and Hemlock grasping the paddle, shot the light skiff swiftly across the stream. When the opposite bank was gained, he sprang ashore and was followed by Maggie. The boy, without a word, paddled back to the village.
Hemlock was in no mood for conversation. The exhaustion following upon his night-vigil was upon him, and he strode forward through the forest without speaking, Maggie following his guidance. Once he halted, on seeing his dog creeping forward on scenting game. Picking up a stick, he stepped lightly after it, and when a covey of partridges rose, threw his missile so successfully that two of the birds dropped. Tying them to his belt, he resumed his monotonous trot, and several miles were passed when the sharp yelps of the dog suddenly arrested their steps. The alarm came from a point to their left. Hemlock, unslinging his rifle, ran in the direction of the dog, whose baying was now intense and continuous, and Maggie, afraid of losing sight of him, hastened after. A short run brought the Indian to the edge of a slough, in a thicket in the centre of which his dog was evidently engaged in mortal combat with some wild animal. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Indian started to pick his way across the morass; partially dried by the prolonged drought, and had passed the centre, when there was a crashing of branches and a huge bear burst out, followed by the dog, which waslimping, from a fractured paw. Before he could turn aside, Hemlock was knocked down by the lumbering brute, which gained the solid ground and was hurrying forward, when, seeing Maggie coming, it sprang for a huge beech tree, with the intent of climbing it. Before it was a yard up, the dog overtook it, had fastened its teeth in its hide and pulled it down. The bear, roused to utmost ferocity by being thwarted, easily caught hold of the disabled dog, held it in its forepaws, and standing on its hind feet, with back resting against the tree, was proceeding to hug its victim to death, when Hemlock came up. He had dropped his rifle in the slough, and instead of waiting to pick it up, had rushed forward to rescue his dog. With upraised hatchet he approached the bear, and dealt it so terrific a stroke, that the light weapon stuck in the skull. With a growl of rage and pain, the bear flung the dog down and before Hemlock could recover himself after dealing the blow, fell upon him, too stunned and weak, however, to do more than keep him under. On catching her first glimpse of the bear, Maggie’s inclination was to flee, but, the next moment, the instinct of self-preservation gave way to a feeling of sympathy for the disabled dog, followed by absorbing excitement as the contest went on. When Hemlock fell underneath the brute, she gave a shriek, and rushed to where the rifle lay. Snatching it, she ran to the bear, which lay panting with outstretchedtongue and half-closed eyes, and dealt him a blow with the butt. With a groan the unwieldy animal rolled over motionless, and Hemlock sprang to his feet, and drew his knife. It was unnecessary; the bear was dead. Maggie looked wildly at the Indian, strove to speak, tottered, and fell: the reaction from the delirium of excited feeling that had sustained her having set in. Tenderly Hemlock raised her in his arms, and carrying her to the edge of the swamp, scooped up sufficient water to bathe her forehead. A few anxious minutes passed, when the pallor began to pass away, and suddenly opening her eyes, Maggie asked, “What of the dog?”
“Never mind Toga; are you hurt?”
“No; are you?”
“I am as well as ever, and had not my foot slipped after striking the bear, would have spared you what you did.”
“That does not matter,” said Maggie, simply, “it was God that put it into my silly head to get the gun and it was His strength that gave the blow—not mine.”
“I care not for your God,” answered Hemlock in a hollow voice, “I have known too many who profess to be His followers to believe in Him.”
“Dinna speak sae,” pleaded Maggie.
“Yesterday,” Hemlock went on, “I met the topped crow that clings to Oka while taking from a squaw her last beaver-skins to say masses for her dead husband, and I cursed him to his teeth as adeceiver that he may eat the corn and give back to his dupes the cob.”
Unheeding his words, Maggie rose and went towards the dog, which was still alive, and began to stroke its head. Its eyes, however, sought not her but his master, and when Hemlock put down his hand, the dying animal feebly tried to lick it. At this sign of affection, the eyes of Hemlock moistened, and falling on his knees he alternately patted the dog and shook his unhurt paw. “My Toga, my old friend, my help in many a hunt, my comrade when we were alone for weeks in the wilderness, are you too going to leave me? You are dying, as the Indian’s dog should die, in the fury of the hunt. A claw of the bear I shall wrap in a piece of my wampum belt and put into your mouth, so that Spotted Fawn may know whose dog you were, and you will serve her and follow her until I join you in the happy hunting-ground—and that will not be long.”
As if sensible of what he said the dog whimpered, and with a last effort placed its head in his outstretched hands. Then it gave a kick or two, and died.
The Indian rose, and selecting a knoll where spruces grew thickly, kindled a fire. Wrapping the two partridges tightly in wet grass and several folds of green birch bark, he waited until there were embers, on which he placed them, and heaped fresh fuel. Asking Maggie to keep up the fire, heleft and was away for some time. When he came back he had the bear’s pelt and several slices of steak, which he proceeded to broil. On lifting the partridges, their bodies came out clean from their covering of feathers, and on tearing them apart the entrails, dried and shrivelled, were easily drawn. Maggie had eaten many a partridge, but a sweeter bite than the breast of one so cooked she had never tasted, and with a piece of the bread in her pocket, she made a light but refreshing dinner. The bear-steak she could not look upon, but like qualms did not interfere with Hemlock’s appetite, who ate them with greater relish because part of his late enemy and the slayer of his dog. He had filled his flask with water from a spring near by, and Maggie remarked, if she “only had a pinch o’ saut, she couldna have asked for a better dinner.” Trimming and scraping the bear’s hide, to make it light as possible, Hemlock wrapped it into a bundle, and strapped it on his back. Then looking to the priming of his rifle, he told Maggie he was ready.
“But the puir dowg; will ye no bury him?”
“I have buried him,” answered Hemlock, “and poisoned the carcase of the bear that it may sicken the wolves that eat of it.”
The tongue of Hemlock was now free, and as they trudged on, he kept up a constant conversation, surprising Maggie by the extent of his information and the shrewdness of his judgment. Becoming conscious that the sun was descending, sheexpressed a fear that she could not reach home that night. “No, you cannot, and I do not mean you should, but you will rest safe before sunset. I am taking you to the fort at Coteau-du-lac.”
“That is oot o’ oor way, Hemlock.”
“Not very far; it is necessary I see Colonel Scott as to how to save Morton.”
Maggie said no more, for that was reason enough to go a hundred miles out of the way, though she thought with pain of the anxiety her absence for another night would give her parents. “Father will think I did not find Hemlock at Oka and that I am looking for him,” she concluded at last, “and will not borrow trouble about me.”